Thwip, thwip—two muffled shots echoed as the guards' heads were pierced by bullets. They collapsed without making a sound, except for the dull thud of their bodies hitting the floor. In a villa as luxurious as this one, the thick door provided excellent soundproofing, ensuring that Pushkin, inside his suite, wouldn't hear the commotion.
Antonov and McCall stood outside the door, guns in hand. Antonov whispered, "Time's running out. I'll deal with the bodies. You take care of Pushkin."
McCall nodded silently. He knew they had little time; even though Antonov would handle the corpses, bloodstains would be difficult to clean up. McCall opened the door and slipped into Pushkin's room.
Surprisingly, Pushkin wasn't in the room. Growing more anxious, McCall moved through the living area until he heard the sound of running water. Finally, he spotted Pushkin in the shower, visible through the glass enclosure. McCall let out a sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, William, observing through the team's optical cameras, briefly wondered if capturing Pushkin alive might be a better option. There could be a wealth of secrets and assets they could extract from him. But the thought quickly passed. William knew that keeping such leverage would only invite trouble, especially from Russian intelligence agencies. He was already on the radar of the CIA due to the recent National Treasure incident. Attracting the attention of Russia's FSB or former KGB operatives would be disastrous.
Silently, William decided against taking Pushkin alive, simply watching as McCall grabbed the remote, closing the windows, lowering the blinds, and dimming the lights.
"Guards!" Pushkin shouted immediately, his instincts sharp. Not hearing any response, he cautiously opened the shower door, scanning the room. When he saw no one, he relaxed a bit. But when he reached for the gun he had left on a nearby stool, only to find it missing, panic surged through him.
Suddenly, Pushkin felt a chill down his spine. Before he could turn around, a sharp pain struck his neck, followed by a firm hand covering his mouth. Thud—a punch slammed into his kidneys, sending waves of pain through his body.
McCall had struck with precision, silencing Pushkin while simultaneously injecting a syringe filled with a mysterious substance into his neck. Within moments, Pushkin's strength began to fade, his body weakening. His terrified eyes searched for his attacker, but all he could make out was a blurry figure dragging him toward the bed.
Pushkin was thrown onto the bed and covered with a blanket. Through the haze of fear and confusion, he heard the sound of a phone dialing.
The bedroom was eerily silent as the phone was placed on the bedside table. Just when Pushkin began to wonder why his assailant hadn't killed him, his heart sank as he spotted something he dreaded—a vial labeled in Russian with the words "truth serum."
The shadowy figure extracted a syringe's worth of liquid from the vial and injected it into Pushkin's neck. McCall then meticulously cleaned up the area, wiping away any evidence of their presence, before slipping out of the room.
Watching the scene unfold, William raised an eyebrow and asked, "What's going on, Sunday?"
"Sir, McCall and Antonov devised multiple contingency plans for this operation. Their best-case scenario was infiltrating Pushkin's room without killing anyone. Antonov brought along a truth serum from his time in the special forces, hoping to extract the details of Pushkin's offshore accounts."
"I see," William said, quickly realizing the truth serum wasn't exactly safe. "So this drug will make him spill the truth but also kill him?"
"Yes, sir. While the serum may or may not work as intended, a large dose will induce heart failure in about ten minutes."
"Alright, give it a shot. If we can get access to Pushkin's hidden accounts, it'll be a nice bonus. Proceed."
"Understood, sir."
Sunday began to remotely control the phone on the bedside table, questioning Pushkin through a voice-modulated program. As expected, the serum initially worked, and Pushkin started speaking coherently. But after five minutes, his speech became garbled and nonsensical, like someone feverishly rambling in a state of delirium.
Before long, Pushkin's voice fell silent.
William closed his eyes, listening to the commotion fade. "Any results?"
"Sir, we obtained two account numbers. I was able to verify one account, which holds just under $200 million. The second account appears to be Pushkin's main one, but due to his mental state, he couldn't fully recall the name or password. I apologize, sir."
"It's fine. I wasn't counting on this, so no harm done." William chuckled, a sinister thought crossing his mind. "I'm almost certain this $200 million account is a trap. Whoever uses it will be flagged."
"You didn't leave any traces while verifying the account, did you, Sunday?"
"No, sir. I used Pushkin's own network at the estate. If anyone investigates, they'll think it was an inside job."
"Good." William turned his attention back to the screens, watching as McCall and the team retreated from the estate. They drove for about twenty minutes before stopping at a clearing by a riverbank.
"Strip off all the equipment," McCall ordered as soon as they parked.
Without hesitation, the team removed their gear and piled it up. None of them showed any attachment to the high-tech equipment. They changed into regular clothes, and as Antonov was the last to exit the car, he activated a timer attached to three incendiary grenades, placing them atop the pile of equipment.
"Let's move. The explosives will go off in a minute, and the car, along with all the gear, will be reduced to ashes."
The others nodded, heading to a fishing boat that was waiting by the river. As the engine revved up, three loud pops echoed from the clearing, and flames engulfed the parked car.
After a ten-minute boat ride, they docked, and Antonov drilled small holes into the boat's hull. He pushed the boat into the river, where it quickly began to sink.
The group split into two cars. McCall planned to switch vehicles several times before flying to Paris and then driving to London, where he would wait for Antonov and the others. Once William gave the go-ahead, they would meet in Oxford.
Antonov's group, on the other hand, would drive to other cities, board planes, and eventually make their way to Switzerland. If all went smoothly, they would reunite with their families within a few days.
Once William was confident the group had safely escaped, he issued one final command: "Monitor McCall, Antonov, and the rest closely over the next few days. I want to know if anyone's planning to betray me or if they have hidden motives for visiting the castle town."
"Understood, sir. I'll keep a close watch on them."
"Good."
Opening a portal, William returned to the yacht in New York. Stretching, he walked out of the office and into the yacht's control room, where he found Ambrosio lounging on the sofa, enjoying the sea breeze and flipping through a magazine.
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